Steven and I Discussed Two Nations and Recent Incidents Which Have Recently Unfolded - After Our Discourse He Provided Further Information to Consider

One week after the largest mass arrest and grossest violation of charter freedoms in Canadian history, the queen opens the Winnipeg Museum of Human Rights, and speaks out about the imperative for governments to respect and defend the Magna Carta and Constitutional guarantees for their citizens. No one said peep in the media. I mean, no one. Fucking appalling. In fact, the day she arrived, with the smoke still billowing from Toronto, there was a near-total media blackout of the Toronto G20 debates, as all fawning eyes shifted to Harper escorting the queen to the racetrack and the ballet, and everyone was on their best behaviour as though nothing was wrong, for the entire week she was here, under the carpet [bus?]. Mum is indeed the word.

A few moments ago, I unveiled the cornerstone of the new Canadian Museum of Human Rights. This building will, in due course, rise up to take its place on the Winnipeg skyline. But it is also a symbol of the importance which Canada attaches to human rights and its own role in promoting them at home and throughout the world.

An integral part of this cornerstone is a smaller stone taken from the meadows of Runnymede in England where Magna Carta was signed in the year 1215. That document was itself the cornerstone of democratic rights and gave rise to the rule of Constitutional Law that now flourishes across the English-speaking world.

Here at the Forks, the symbolism of Magna Carta is now joined to the historical importance of a site where aboriginal peoples gathered for thousands of years to exchange views and resolve conflicts. Ce sont là des bases précieuses qui sauront sûrement inspirer le Musée national, auquel je souhaite bon succès."

Curiously, all CBC, CTV, and royaltour.gc.ca have all removed their videos of the queen making this speech. When I heard it, there was alot of weighted tones behind the reminder that Canada holds human rights as it's cornerstone, and a note of shame and embarrassment and tragic irony. I felt a regally diplomatic finger wagging. Everyone knew Canadian Constitutional law had just been violated at the highest levels, and Harper, champion of Canadian Economic Sovereignty and the global police state's top apologist, was on all fours sucking the Queen's dick after laying down a billion dollars for the world's top dictators in TO, publicly shit-kicking Canadians in the streets to seal the deal and show fidelity. I can't believe we didn't hang the fucker that day. Nobody said boo.

It was one of my 2010 peak moments of cognitive dissonance, and nobody commented on it. I have rarely been so apoplectic with fury.

For most of my life I have disliked birds – and I don’t mean pigeons, which everyone hates and is therefore not really worth writing about. No, I have a strange aversion to all of them, no matter how small, cute, or colorful might one particular species be or no matter how sweet is its song. To me they are dirty little jittery creatures whose erratic movements, airborne shitting and gnarly claws make me nervous and aggravate my own latent anxiety (concerning other things in the world, more important than birds.)

Until recently, I took my dislike of bird for granted. As a teenager I regularly observed my parents happily spying on backyard Hummingbirds with binoculars they’d bought for such sightings –they even shot at neighborhood cats who dared invade their beloved birds’ terrain with a BB gun – but I never questioned the source of the repugnance such behavior provoked. My loathing became so extreme that in my 20s and early 30s I frequently avoided late night parties and other outings, fearing the early-morning bird chirping that would inevitably accompany me home to bed, leaving me irritated and insomniac. I think it may have been when I moved to a city that was particularly overrun with crows – a horrific type of bird that, I was warned, displays aggression toward small dogs and shiny hair ornaments – that I experienced a flashback to the incident from my childhood that had spawned all this hatred.

From what I recall, sometime in 1977 a Blue Jay was found nesting in the magnolia tree in our front yard. I was six years old and I liked animals and driven by the normal curiosity of a child responding to the presence of wildlife in an otherwise sterile suburban environment, I must have gotten too close to the baby birds. The protective mother responded appropriately and I was punished with a good pecking to the head which according to my mother (who is prone to exaggeration) left a sizeable hole. I don’t remember the actual attack –I must have blocked it out of my memory forever – but I do retain a fairly concrete image in my mind of a group of neighborhood friends, along with my brother and mother, staring in awe at the resulting wound (made more traumatic by the fact that I never actually saw it).

I guess I never forgave that Blue Jay and it’s not surprising given that it is my nature to hold grudges. I tried to overcome (or simply deny) my bitterness toward birds during a brief affair I had in early 2008 with an avian biologist who quickly and unceremoniously dumped me for no good reason. It only made me hate birds that much more.

Chilliwack has a big box that has the town name on it, also the word, Depot

Merritt, 10 min break, bought popcorn twists and pee - did not reapply exosocks - there was wifi, but I only noticed as we rumbled away, downloaded some fleeting e-mails.

Kamloops, 30 min stop, exosocks + fingerless gloves and scarf are attached to body. all humans are dismissed from within the coach as it is filled with fuel, there are many vending machines in the stop for waiting, they have a 24 cafe of gloom and incomprehensible moving pictures being shown on a tv attached to the ceiling

Cache Creek just sat there

Did that for Williams Lake too

Quesnel is snowy

At 6.30 am some chatty fella starts chatting with the driver, he was shushed, but continued providing tracts to monosyllabic replies, he is a duck fucker

Prince George, has a lovely, well worn bus station, that has been polished by the jackets and shoes of people passing though and it is near a giant food shop, I nearly buy some travel sized mouthwash but as I walk around the shop it leaks through the plastic seal. Guy working in shop asks if he could help me, I ask for hot coffee, he points me in the direction of a place. I buy rice crisps and blueberry juice from giant shop and carefully walk along the uneven, mottled ice towards hot coffee and wifi

Vanderhoof, the toilet closet in the bus had a light that strobed. No room for a sink, used the isopropyl alcohol based hand sanitiser. Drank some blueberry juice and ate some rice cakes, have been listening to a podcast since PG.

Fort Fraser, we stopped, planted to the seat, took some photos and stitched them together - listening to another podcast by the same guy. Many got off the bus and clamoured into the shopx in my photo, they return with bounty, they smell of tobacco, no wifi here

Fraser Lake, we have pulled over at a fried chicken joint, I'm tempted but will remain seated and are soon rolling again. It is a bit sunny.

Burns Lake, gripped with terror I turned on data roaming and downloaded my email, twittered and saved this text. Nothing much with my crew on the bus, we are sitting tight.

Houston, chatting with the fella ahead of me since Topley. He shot a moose, I did not see, with his hand. There is an imaginary moose head trophy in the seat ahead of me now. The giant windows of the coach are slowly being tinted beige with muddy splatter. Photography is fading from possible in this chair.

Telkwa, one guy got off, he had a Maxim magazine

Smithers, the bus driver has made an announcement: our coach is 1226, we will be here for 30 min. But have not yet arrived, the scarf is on! I spent the cab money on chicken wings, 3 spicy and 3 regular.

Lady to the Left chatted with me for a bit about her family.

Hazleton, my window has a mighty glaze of dirt, the bus is backing into it's parking spot. There is a tiny house to my left and wifi.

We sat in narrow chairs, these seats are bolted to the inside of an A330-200. It took us across the world from London to Vancouver. We saw Iceland from a great height, it is well named. Our flight kept us pinned on noon, with the sun directly on our side for the duration of the flight, until we dipped into the clouds to land.

Vancouver made me giggle with its lack of giant milling, throngs of humanity and my first wave of homesickness finally arrived. While the misanthropy of England is obvious, this is the land for its true expression. I was able to locate a missing liquid from my desired, clear liquids, eat a burgerphoto by S. Best and discover some of the local sights.

In a few days I will board a bus and roll for 24 hours to Terrace, the cost of air travel being too high. A business plans for low cost flights to small Canadian towns was ruminated upon the A330-200 as it rumbled over the Arctic and will be again in my future rumbles.

So there was a bomb, the bomb, it could make a tiny sun over a city with a shoe box of elements and everything arranged just so. The bomb was carried on a plane, a big, slow plane called a bomber. The bomb made everybody in the world concerned so they all did something, as people do when concerned. They made interceptors, big fast planes, to go and shoot down bombers. They all looked kinda the same. A rocket with a chair on it for the pilot and a gun or whatever. These planes usually had triangle shaped wings for stability when going fast to catch bombers.

The people with the bombs and the slow planes did not want their tiny sun in a box, intercepted.

They then out rocketed the interceptors by putting the bomb inside of a rocket.

Bombs now sat in the pilot seat and by doing sums very well, they could shoot a bomb high in the sky and drop it anywhere in the world with just small deviations in trajectory, its path was so high. Interceptor makers had a tool with no job, and soon stopped making them, it was too depressing. Many did not make bombs, but some conspicuous people did, and they pointed their bombs at the other bomb makers bombs.

This went on for a while. Getting worried about their rockets they soon tucked them underground, covered in steel and shrubs and other protective things.

Then one side got the good idea to put rockets in submarines and the other rocket maker found this complicated and lost the ability to cover the other sides rockets with bombs.

So got hired trucks and drivers and a guy with a book of sums to drive aimlessly in a truck with a rocket on it, pointing their rockets every so often at foes from a dusty platform. Then after a while one side said, "oh forget it" and stop messing about with making and positioning bombs for a while and everyone said, "Shouldn't you lock those up?" and they said "Leave us alone!"